Michael was on his feet, his heart a wild drum, the 2-0 scoreline a beautiful, vindicating sight.

His Gaffer, Arthur, had been right. His team wasn't a one-man show.

They had beaten the league leaders, down to 10 men, with a goal from a free-kick rocket and a perfect, tactical header.

He was still applauding, a grin plastered on his face, as the second half resumed.

The 2-0 lead, plus the man advantage, should have meant a calm, professional, "see out the game" performance.

But Michael was quickly learning: his team didn't do "calm."

Portsmouth, the "Kings of the South," were not just beaten. They were humiliated. And they were furious.

Their manager was on the touchline, a screaming, red-faced hurricane of rage. Their 10 remaining players were no longer a football team; they were a gang of 10 very angry, very expensive men who had just been embarrassed, and they were out for blood.

In the 65th minute, Finn Riley, the "Wild Fox," who was high on confidence and arrogance, received the ball. He had space.

But instead of passing, he just... stopped.

He put his foot on the ball, waiting for the Portsmouth left-back to approach him, just so he could nutmeg him.

It was the ultimate act of disrespect.

The left-back, who had been run ragged all day, didn't go for the ball.

He just launched himself, a two-footed, scissors-style, studs-up lunge, straight at Finn's standing leg.

It was a tackle of pure, unadulterated, career-ending spite.

"NO!" Michael roared, lurching forward in his box.

Finn, with his [PA 90] reflexes, just barely managed to leap out of the way, the defender's boots scything through the air where his ankle had just been.

The referee, who had been struggling all game, blew his whistle.

The entire Barnsley team, including the bench, exploded.

"THAT'S A RED! THAT'S A RED CARD! HE'S TRYING TO BREAK HIS LEG!" Steve, the assistant, was screaming, his voice cracking. Arthur was jabbing his cane at the fourth official, his face a mask of purple rage.

Michael was screaming, "GET HIM OFF THE PITCH! ARE YOU BLIND?!"

The referee, his face pale, surrounded by 21 screaming players, jogged over. He looked at the Portsmouth player, who was now calmly protesting his innocence. He reached, with a shaking hand, into his back pocket...

...and pulled out...

...a yellow card.

The stadium imploded.

It was a sound of pure, unified, disbelieving rage.

"HE'S BLIND!" the commentator shrieked, his voice breaking. "HE'S GOT TO BE THE ONLY MAN IN THE STADIUM WHO DIDN'T SEE THAT! THAT IS A DISGRACE! THE REFEREE IS A BLIND MAN, AND HE HAS COMPLETELY, TOTALLY, LOST CONTROL OF THIS GAME!"

Michael just slumped back in his chair, his hands over his face. This was a circus. A dangerous, violent circus.

The game was no longer football. It was a series of fouls. Portsmouth was just trying to hurt them.

Yellow Card #3. Yellow Card #4.

They weren't even trying to score. They were just trying to survive without any more humiliation.

But Barnsley, fueled by the injustice, by the anger, by the sheer, glorious arrogance of their talent, decided to punish them.

The 88th minute. The game was over. But Barnsley still had the ball. They were just... toying with them.

"Olé!" the crowd chanted, with every single, simple, five-yard pass.

"Olé!"

"Olé!"

The Portsmouth players were just... jogging. They were broken. Their spirits were shattered.

Danny Fletcher, the "Brain," received the ball in the center circle. He looked up. H

e saw Finn Riley, the man who had almost just lost his leg, making a lazy, arrogant, diagonal run.

Danny didn't play a simple pass. He hit a 40-yard, defense-splitting, perfect through-ball, just to show that he could.

Finn [PA 90] was one-on-one. The Portsmouth keeper, his shoulders slumped, came jogging out, his face a mask of pure, existential despair. He was just here to collect his paycheck.

Finn, the "Wild Fox," didn't just score. He humiliated him.

He got to the ball, 10 yards ahead of the keeper.

And he stopped. He put his foot on the ball. He just... stood there. He waited. He waited for the keeper to slide, desperately, past him.

And then, as the keeper was on his backside, defeated, Finn, with a look of pure, bored, glorious disrespect, just rolled the ball, with the sole of his boot, into the empty net.

3-0.

The stadium was not cheering. It was laughing. It was a cruel, beautiful, joyous sound. Finn didn't even celebrate. He just turned, shrugged his shoulders at the furious Portsmouth fans, and jogged back to the halfway line.

"OH, STOP IT! JUST STOP IT!" the commentator was crying with laughter.

"THAT IS RUDE! THAT IS DISRESPECTFUL! THAT IS GLORIOUS! FINN RILEY HAS JUST SENT THE GOALKEEPER FOR A HOT DOG! THE KINGS OF THE SOUTH HAVE BEEN HUMILIATED!"

The Portsmouth players didn't even complain. They just... walked, like zombies, back to the center circle. Their heads were down. They were broken.

The referee blew his whistle. They kicked off.

Their captain, his spirit shattered, played a lazy, sideways pass.

BAM!

Tom "The Interceptor" Harrison, who was still pressing, still hungry, just... stole it. He didn't even have to try. He just took the ball, as if the captain had passed it to him.

Tom looked up. He gave it to Finn.

Finn, with a no-look, flick-pass, gave it to Jamie.

Jamie, with a first-time, cushioned pass, gave it to Danny.

One-two-three!

Danny Fletcher [PA 91] was on the edge of the box. He had all the time in the world. He didn't smash it. He didn't try a Power Shot. He was the "Prince." He was class.

He just... curled it. A beautiful, arrogant, effortless shot, that bent around the rooted, defeated goalkeeper, and nestled, perfectly, into the top-right corner of the net.

4-0.

It had been ninety seconds.

"TWO GOALS!" the commentator screamed, his voice just a raw, hoarse shriek. "TWO GOALS IN TWO MINUTES! THIS IS NOT A CUP TIE, IT IS A MASSACRE! THIS IS A DEMOLITION! THE 'KINGS OF THE SOUTH' HAVE BEEN DETHRONED, DE-ROBED, AND KICKED OUT OF THE PALACE!"

The Portsmouth players just... stopped. They didn't even bother to restart. They just stood there, their hands on their hips, waiting for the sweet, sweet release of the final whistle.

The referee, looking at his watch, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated pity, blew it. The game was over.

Michael Sterling stood in his director's box, watching the carnival unfold on his pitch. His team, his "Braves," were dancing in front of their fans. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling.

He just looked at the scoreboard.

BARNSLEY 4 - 0 PORTSMOUTH.

He had made a terrible, arrogant, stupid mistake. He had taken his queen off the board.

And it hadn't mattered.

His team... his system... his factory... was so good, so powerful, that it had covered for him, without him even asking.

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